


The Wrecking Ball

by Opaul



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Multi, Stydia, Teen Wolf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-15
Updated: 2013-08-15
Packaged: 2017-12-23 13:39:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/927131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Opaul/pseuds/Opaul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Newton's 3 laws of motion applied in relation to Stiles' and Lydia's relationship (and the denial of) in her viewpoint. Inspired by The Wrecking Ball by Amelia Curran</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Wrecking Ball

_I can love you best of all;  
I am the wrecking ball_

“What.” The word comes out of you without finesse or dramatics. It is a more of a statement than anything else.

He holds up several slightly worn DVD cases and a plastic bag that is filled with the familiar paper boxes of Noodles and Company. And then he smiles. The corners of his mouth forming deep dimples in his face. It’s disheartening how lovely you find that simple miniscule detail of someone’s face. It should never be near that lovely. Cute maybe, but it they shouldn’t make your heart swell. They don’t. You avoid looking him in the eye. That’ll be too much and you aren’t ready to deal with that right now. You aren’t ready to like him. It’ll be like letting loose the flood gates. Once you start you’re sure you’ll never be able to stop and you’re not sure you’re ready to have this roving ball of near endless energy embedding itself into your life. So you cutch the door frame tightly and hope he doesn’t notice.

“Well the last few days have been pretty shitty on all of us. And since everyone else has ditched us I figured we could hang out and watch a movies and eat artery clogging take out.”

You sigh as if exasperated. You aren’t, but you should be. Allison must have let slip that you have been having weird ‘instances” again, but unlike the ones before these ones are nonsensical and disturbing. Not to mention you are pretty sure you’re getting the flu so that was added fun. So much for the girl code. You think will a roll of your eyes. But the food smells good, like greasy noodles and alfredo sauce with extra cream and he is looking at you expectantly and the next handful of words come tumbling out of your mouth without permission or grace. “Yeah sure, whatever better than sitting home alone I guess.”

“Come on in Stiles.” The you from a year ago would never be saying these things, never open the door wide and step aside letting him come inside. The person you were a year ago would not be getting out plates and silverware because you refuse to eat out of the box like a pig and grabbing soda and popcorn and wrapping yourself in blanket with teddy bears on it and without shame or fear plop down on one of the nice couches in your living room with a plate of shrimp alfredo in your lap while he holds up movie choices.

“I am not watching Star Wars,” you say slurping up a noodle.

“But come on they’re classics!” He flails his hands slightly and his jaw slacks like he is slightly dumbfounded, but she knows he knows her better and expected this.

“No.” The word rolls of your tongue gracefully. Your tone is final. You used to talk to Jackson this way. But it’s more playful. When did it become more playful? You try not to focus on that as you twirl an alfredo noodle around your fork like you’re making artwork here.

“Okay,” he says with defeat, “I also have Blade Runner, Inception, Casablanca, The Avengers, and WALL-E.”

“I am not watching anything with blood or gore while I’m eating.” The excuse sounds fine out loud. You breathe a slight sigh of relief. He will not notice and you two will have a nice normal night.

He tosses three of the movies into the growing reject pile.“Well that leads Casablanca and WALL-E then.” You’re heart clenches at the first one. You’ve always hated that movie with a raging passion.

_“Don’t you sometimes wonder if it’s worth all this? I mean what you’re fighting for.”_

_“You might as well question why we breathe. If we stop breathing, we’ll die. If we stop fighting our enemies, the world will die.”_

_“Well, what of it? It’ll be out of its misery.”_

_“You know how you sound, Mr. Blaine? Like a man who’s trying to convince himself of something he doesn’t believe in his heart.”_

The words you remember resemble too closely to your own predicament. It’s not something you can handle at the moment having to sit through a movie where the couple lose each other because the girl has a duty and the guy is willing to sacrifice himself in order to make sure she gets there. You can’t bear that not with the screams of anguish echoing over and over again in your head. Flashes of blood smeared on pavement, glass, and little perfect dimples and crisp button down shirts turning red in your hands as the unmarked and innocent die. There is blood so much blood and there is screaming, so _much_ screaming. You must be crying at this point in time you see him drop the movie and stand slowly. Your jaw trembles and you cannot move. You’re throat is suddenly painfully raw and there is a ringing in your ears.

“Lydia,” he says quietly. You just shake your head for you cannot blink and cannot move. You feel the tears slip silently down your face. “Lydia,” he says again. It sounds soft and slow and warm. “What is happening?” You have no words in which to describe it or even to begin. He places a hand on your shoulder and it steadies everything enough for you to shut your eyes and breathe. An arm wraps around your shoulder. You hear breathing even and steady.

After a few moments the feeling subsides like they always do and you can breath again. You slowly open your eyes and he’s looking at you with a mix of sorrow and fear. Each iris is near all consuming. His hand is still gently placed on your shoulder. He says something but you don’t catch it. His lips move but you hear no sound. For a moment you ponder reaching forward and kissing him. You bet it would feel natural and he would taste like apples.

But your stomach flips and then suddenly synapses of your frontal cortex start working at full capacity again. This is not the moment, this is not for right now, that would not be healthy not with you crying like this, maybe tomorrow, maybe next week, or next month. Then you’ll kiss him. You don’t plan out what will happen afterward and you never allow yourself to image that far.

You take a deep breath and say “How about WALL-E that’s a kid’s movie right? Casablanca is a bit heavy for right now don’t you think.” You force your voice to stay steady and your mouth manages a smile. You wipe a tear off your face with the back of your hand and pick up your plate of food again.

“Sure, let’s watch that.” The relief in his voice is palpable. The corners of his lips tug upward, but not enough for the lovely little crevices to form. “I know you said no scifi but it’s technically not scifi since it’s animated..”

“I don’t care, Stiles, just put the movie in.”

“Right on it your _highness_.”

You smile at the comment. He doesn’t see.Then he sits down on the opposite edge of the couch by your feet and starts to pile his plate high with penne rosa. If you pointed your toes you’re pretty sure you could brush his hip. But you don’t. You don’t want to, but despite this you can’t shake the feeling that he is entirely too far away.

And then the movie starts to play and there is this adorable little robot on screen and you’ve been eating your favorite pasta and while curled up in an old blanket and everything just softens. Within an hour you’ve got a pillow propped up against Stiles’ side, He has got his arms thrown over the back of the couch causally. You told him you got a crick in your neck from lying on one side for too long, which he believes without hesitation. And you’re not touching at all, but you’re close. And it feels, good. Natural, normal, slow, easy. Baby steps you tell yourself, baby steps. That’s all you need and you won’t be diving head first into current too fast too swim in.

You actually pay attention to the movie. No screaming. Though your eyes glance over at him whenever something funny happens. Because dimples. And maybe the way his eyes light up whenever he smiles. Your are beyond caring at this point. You turn your eyes back to the screen. The little dingy robot grips a small red fire extinguisher. Eve, the high tech robot, watches as he spurts back a few inches when he accidentally releases foam. Newtons third you think cheekily. For every reaction there is an equal and opposite reaction.

In a shower of ice crystals and light the two little robots dance around the space ship in the abyss of space. Flying around the jet engines like two planets in orbit. Even as non living machines they had such chemistry, they just naturally gravitate toward each other. Then again all matter as gravity and attracts all other objects in space even the two smallest particles on opposite edges of the universe have gravitate toward each other.

It was so odd gravity was the weakest of the four molecular forces but it kept the humans alive on that spaceship and almost got them killed numerous times. It kept the earth in motion.

“That was a cute movie.” The words sound fake in your ears. You glance over at him. His head droops on his shoulder. Eyes closed he breathes in an out steady and even with the rhythm of sleep.

 

———-

It’s just a slow figure eight shape you tell yourself, despite the spinning of your head. You count out the beats; one, two three, one, two, three. Its not the dancing but the closeness that is near frightening. The smell of fabric softener wafts off his suit jacket. His shoulder is warm against your hand and you try not to think about the skin in contact with your other one. It’s just dancing, it’s just his phalanges and metacarpals. And their curves fit snugly inside her own as their hamates and lunates mash together.

The boy can dance well enough. You wonder who taught him to dance. Last time you did this he was not near as graceful. You look over at your best friend and almost feel bad for Allison who is struggling with Isaac’s lack of rhythm and a suit that’s at least a full size too big. It might be that Mrs. McCall didn’t have time to hem it. They seem to be having some fun at least. Better off than Scott attempting to dance with Cora who seems to be having none of it. But you swear you see the girl crack a smile when he dramatically dips her.

“Makes you almost want those two too end up together just to see Derek’s reaction,” Stiles says in your ear. That will never happen you know better, Scott is too much of a softie for that girl. She will never, even in infinite universes with an infinite stretch of time, go for him. You see this in her face, in the way she smiles, but she’s having fun, like she is dancing with her brother, which you suppose she is in a way. Besides that boy only has eyes for one girl and she’s dancing with someone else at the moment.

Then you’re being twirled around again. You were off beat you realize. You attempt to spin out and back around with grace, but the movement is sloppy. Stupid centripetal force. The force governing a body to follow a curved path in space around a fixed point. The basics of circular motion. An aspect of inertia. The second law of motion, an object’s tendency to resist chances in motion while in motion. 

Your fingers slip around in his as you spin back around to face him. And he’s smiling like this is fun. And you smile. You even feel like smiling. “You spun me early.” The glare you give him lacks bite. He shrugs with humor. “Maybe.”

For an instant you lock eyes and there is a lack of blood flow to your stomach and a jolt of extra adrenaline, a fluttery feeling and it’s just a figure eight shape. In 3/4 time, at 84 beats per minute. ‘One, two, three’, you tell yourself, ‘one, two, three,’ and it’s a calming pattern. A figure 8, a continuous shape, no matter how many times you flow out from the center you always end up back in the same spot. And so you try glancing nonchalantly as possible at the face of the other object following you around in space. But he’s just looking at you. The corner of his mouth pulled up just ever so much. And you look back too.

One. two. three. And the music stops. His eyes might even be more captivating than his smile. _Brown eyes._ You tilt your head slightly. _Or are they more of a hazel?_ You think about how some traits just make people seem so ordinary, but on other people they seem to light up everything about them. Jackson had blue eyes, and Aiden…actually you aren’t really sure what color eyes he has. You were always more focused with _other_ aspects of his anatomy.

The edges of your mouth slowly form a smile to match his. There is a blood curdling scream in the distance and you know that the moment is over. He lets go of your hand and is running past you. Toward the fight. Toward the center like he always does. Where he is needed most. And you follow him.

——-

You’re dreaming, and you know you’re dreaming. You’re walking through your house late at night. It’s dark. And you’re all alone. It is usually a bunch of aimless wandering, but this time when you rise from bed. There is a little red string woven tied around your thumb. It’s tied in a perfect bow so so very tightly you feel your pulse push against it. Your finger is dark pink from the loss of circulation. You stare at it flabbergasted for a moment. The bow is rather fetching at least.

Your eyes travel the length of the string where it gathers in a large pile on your floor beside your bed. You stand up and tilt your head. It’s strange. But you don’t question it. You follow the string as it leads out of your room and down the hallway. Your steps are slow and deliberate as you descend the stairs. All of this is odd and yet familiar. Like following a red silk string tied around your finger is something you do everyday.

You follow it outside and into the forest. To the old dead oak in the middle of the forest. It’s branches are gnarled and spread out from the trunk in all directions. It’s bigger than before. It stretches so high into the sky you cannot even see the top, even in the clearing, even with the cloudless sky. This strikes you as odd as though it’s upside down or something. Your eyes travel down to the base where the oak trunks splits open and reveals a large gaping hole in the ground.

The string dives down into the dark. Well there is no way in hell you are going down there. You give it a tug but nothing happens. You wrinkle your brow at the little bow around your phalanges. For the first time you wonder why it is there. Why is it there? Didn’t red strings symbolize something in mythology. You rack your thoughts but your mind is cloudy. You breathe in. You breathe out. Oxygen to brain cells. Mrs. Blake had mentioned it they represented fate. So your fate was down that dark hole in the ground. You look down into it with partial dismay and partial curiosity. Down the rabbit hole you go not sure what you’ll find at the bottom. Your feet slip on the muddy stairs and the darkness swallows you up. 

The thread pulls tight around your thumb and disappears among the places the moonlight does not reach. Your eyes search for it again following the path it disappeared into. There is a stump of a tree in the middle of the room with a figure laying on it. 

The room itself is dark and full of gnarled roots that jut out in every possible direction. The only light comes from the cracks in the ceiling they cause. It looks like a literal rabbit hole. You actually found rabbits and not an elongated Lewis Carol metaphor. Away from the ceiling, your eyes descend to the floor. Covered with old leaves. The smell of earth fills your olfactory glands. Like dead plants and fertile soil. They are strangely familiar scents. Haunting and calming.

You give the thread another tug. It’s amazing the thin little thing hasn’t torn to shreds by now. Bits of red appear in the spots of moon light. The string disappears into the tangle of roots at the center of the room. Great. You have to go near there. But you take a step toward it. Your fate is in there and you’d rather find out what it is than best around the bush. Peering into the mass of roots you see a sleeping form lying on the ground. A Luna moth has landed on his chest. It’s wings flutter slowly.

"Stiles wake up." You say shaking him through the roots He does not rise. "Stiles this is no place for nap time we need to get out of this hole in the ground." You say through gritted teeth. What if he isn’t alive? You swallow down the fear and shake him harder. "Wake up," You breathe.

His eyes open in a rush. Black as pitch with no white or brown for the iris. Without hesitation you grab his hand and pull him towards you. He stumbles into a stand position. He doesn’t move. Pale and motionless like a ghost. You tug on his hand again. “I’d rather not spend anymore time in this creepy place so come on.” You tug again and he follows this time. His palm is cold against yours. There is a little red bow around his thumb.

And that is all you remember when you wake in the morning with the sun blinding your eyes.

 

——

 

You stare at him as he slips the phone into his pocket. Your eyes focusing on his fingers. There are no red strings this time. When he near collapses you carry him. You are more than strong enough now. His heavy breathing near drowns out the sound of his voice. The cement floor is cold beneath your hands. He is in pain and frightened and you have no fucking idea how to make it stop. You keep talking and talking but you’re floundering. Instinctively your hands move to his face. You can feel his body tremble under your fingertips. Every choking breath he thunders in your ears. “Stiles, look at me.” He does, but it doesn’t help. Objects moving at a constant velocity will continue at a constant velocity until acted upon but an outside force. He gazes at you for a moment then his eyes flicker to your mouth. He is closer than he has ever been to you in this moment you think. Your close your eyes and act.

In the instance of collision you feel the whole word shift in the space around you. Atlas has dropped the ball that was upon his shoulders. You feel the boy freeze up and then release. Breaths stop coming in ragged bursts. In fact, he may not be breathing at all. Then he begins to kiss you back. And the world shatters. You feel you heart beat wildly against your thoracic cavity. Your stomach loses blood and the nerve endings in your lips replay impulses wildly. The wrecking ball has made impact. The barrier cracks and crumbles. The water flows out down the mountain. 

You both break away unhurriedly. His irises swallow up the light. The glow of the hazel is painfully beautiful. His breath even and steady against your cheek. It’s warm as it brushes your mouth and moves your hair. “I..uh…” You stumble for reasoning. “I read once that holding your breath can stop a panic attack.” Your tongue rubs against you lip. He didn’t taste like apples, but peaches. Your eyes flicker downward. The unbridled part of your mind urges you to kiss him again.

“So, when I kissed you, you held your breath.” Kiss him forever. Kiss him till he smiles again. Kiss him until you’re sure the taste will never leave your mouth. It’s what you want, but it isn’t present in the words that flow out of your mouth. Your mind struggles to rationalize like always. You keep talking and talking. The energy shifts again. You feel yourself slipping back into a familiar spot. 

The two of you get up and move on like what you experienced was just a fluke. But it wasn’t. You are two objects revolving around each other in space. Your dance has barely just begun. Maybe. If you’re lucky you will overcome inertia and finally stop spinning.

_You see I loved you all the while_  


**Author's Note:**

> I hope you all liked this. Leave me your thoughts on the second person. It's a style I don't usually write in, ever. 
> 
> -Opaul


End file.
